I'm Gonna Kill You, Castle
by WRTRD
Summary: Beckett is not happy about page 105, and she lets Castle know. In very certain terms. Set after S2x04 "Fool Me Once." Two-shot. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

Kate Beckett should have known that there would be trouble the instant his head had popped up over the partition in the ladies' room at the precinct.

She'd gone in there—she'd had every right to, since she's a female and a member of the 12th—to read a bit of _Heat Wave_. Specifically, the sex scene to which that weird Agent Gray, Castle's alleged CIA guy, had alluded. More than alluded. He'd said straight out how how racy it was. So there she'd been, minding her own business in the cramped stall, leafing through the book. And it really had been her business, is her business, since Castle has been following her around for months, constantly sticking his nose in where it doesn't belong, to get background material for his goddamn book. It totally pisses her off, even though he does have a great-looking nose and her own nose has involuntarily reminded her on numerous occasions just how good he smells. Amazingly good. But of course he has all that money to throw around to make sure he that smells good.

She should have known.

"It's on page 105, by the way," Castle had said, appearing unexpectedly over the partition between her stall and the next one, looking down at her and the open book in her hand. WTF? He'd barged into the ladies room? He'd blindsided her, and she'd been so lame trying to pretend she wasn't reading. Then he'd said that Agent Gray—and speaking of lame, how lame is that obviously fake name for a spy?—was right, the sex is "steamy." And then he'd left. Just left her there, scrunched up in the stall, blushing and flustered and mortified. Once he was gone, she'd read page 105. Oh, no. No, no, no. She'd closed _Heat Wave_ , hidden it in her bag, pulled herself together, and returned to her desk. At least he'd left the premises, hadn't been standing around there smirking.

Beckett had gone home soon after. As soon as she'd stepped into her apartment, she'd stomped to the kitchen. Coffee would help, it always helped. While she'd waited for the water to come to a boil, she'd simmered. Her blood must have been 210 degrees. That's 99 degrees in Celsius, she'd thought idly, wishing that she were in some part of the world that used Celsius, which is almost all of it. At least 190 countries. How far away from this hell could she get? How much vacation time did she have? She'd go online, buy a ticket to Australia or Madgascar, grab her passport and a bag and go. Wait for it all to blow over. Or maybe never come back.

She'd spent most of the weekend trying to purge page 105 from her memory, but it hadn't worked.

And then it had gotten worse. Much, much, worse. On Sunday evening she'd been lying on her sofa in yoga pants and a sweat shirt, _The New York Times_ in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. She'd saved the Arts  & Leisure section for last because it's her favorite, and she'd been contentedly reading until she'd seen the enormous Barnes & Noble advertisement splashed across two full pages. There was the announcement, set in large boldface type and displayed in a box so that it was impossible to miss, that Richard Castle would be signing copies of his latest book, _Heat Wave_. "Sure to sizzle at the top of the bestseller lists!" _Publisher's Weekly_ had said. She'd closed her eyes before proceeding, ground her teeth, and resumed her painful survey of the paper. That's when she'd hit the bad-luck trifecta. 1) He'd be at Barnes  & Noble's Union Square store, which is just a few blocks from the precinct. 2) He'd be there tomorrow evening. 3) He wouldn't just be signing, he'd be reading. As in reading aloud to the assembled hordes of slavering fans. And probably every single person from the precinct who isn't on duty.

"I'm gonna kill you, Castle," she'd said to the small photo of him in the ad. "I'm going to fucking kill you."

She'd slept fitfully, and on Monday morning she has to devote extra time to her makeup, trying to conceal the dark circles under her eyes. Castle walks off the elevator at the precinct two hours after she does, bearing two coffees—one of which he places on her desk—and a box of doughnuts.

"Good morning, all," he says, so cheerily that she wants to arrest him for unwarranted jollity. "I've brought two dozen doughnuts, including the seasonally-appropriate pumpkin-frosted ones, and an invitation."

"To your Hallowe'en party?" Ryan asks hopefully.

"That'll come later, I promise. No, this is to my book reading and signing tonight, right in the neighborhood Barnes and Noble. And in here"—he holds up a large envelope and shakes it slightly—"I have coupons for a free book for each one of you. I'll just put this all in the break room."

The break room, huh. She'd like to break him right about now, despite the coffee he just gave her, not to mention pumpkin-frosted doughnuts, which she knows he knows are her weakness.

"Thanks, man, that's nice," Espo says.

"Also, I'm not sure that I mentioned it before, but I won't have the pleasure of your company this week and next because I'm off on a book tour first thing tomorrow. And I need today to get ready, so I'll just say goodbye and I hope to see you all tonight."

"Count on it, Castle," Ryan says.

"Mftu," LT says, his mouth full of glazed doughnut. " 'scuse me. I'll be there. Thanks."

"Thanks," Beckett says, trying not to choke. "See you in a couple of weeks."

He stops, looking surprised, just as she hoped he would. "You're not coming tonight?"

"Sorry, Castle," she picks up her phone. "I have a hundred and five things to do. Can't make it." She punches in her own home number and begins to talk about forms she needs and what does the nonexistent person on the end of the line mean that they're out of stock? She's still participating in this one-way conversation when he gets in the elevator and disappears from view.

That evening Beckett's in a funk. The thing is, except for page 105, she loves the book. Not only that, but she wants to hear him read it in that deep, honeyed voice of his, the voice that can turn her to mush, that can make unmentionable parts of her very, very warm **.** She pours herself a glass of wine and looks out the window. "He makes me crazy in the worst way," she tells her reflection, and takes a sip of Burgundy. "He makes me crazy in the best way." She is the very definition of conflict, and decides to look at the infamous page again. She sits in a chair, her glass on the table next to her, and flips open the book.

"One of his hands began to reach for her blouse but hesitated." Oh, right, like Castle—yeah, yeah, in the book it's Jameson Rook, as if everyone doesn't know that he's really Castle—would ever hesitate to unbutton her blouse. "She clutched it and placed it on her breast." Oh, God. And all the tonguing and the nibbling. And then she—Nikki—straddled him and ripped her blouse open and the buttons went flying? Oh, please. And then after his fingers had ridden "the slick of perspiration above the dampness of her bra" he unhooked the front clasp?

She throws _Heat Wave_ across the room. Everyone, but everyone, is going to give her unspeakable grief for this. Ask her how long she's been sleeping with Castle. And, oh, no. Her father. Her dad is going to read this? Yes, of course he's going to.

Who does Castle think he is? Had he even thought at all about how people they know, people they work with, would react to this? How she, his so-called muse, would react? No, he hadn't. Her life is going to be hell.

The hell begins on Tuesday morning and lasts throughout the week. To paraphrase page 105 again—and by now she has it memorized—he has no idea. And how dare he? she mentally splutters. How dare he co-opt the line she'd used on him after their first case? "You have no idea." That was private, goddam it.

She finds Post-its on her computer, asking what kind of tequila she recommends. Someone leaves a gift bag on her chair, and when she peeks in she sees a lacy, front-closing bra. Conversation stops whenever she walks by a group of cops, and begins again after she's a few steps past. On Wednesday, when she's just finished her shift, a tidal wave begins.

"Have an extraordinary evening," the desk sergeant says.

"Thanks. You, too," she replies, a little taken aback by his choice of adjective. And then he looks right at her, winks, and goes back to his ledger. What was that about?

Extraordinary is what it's about. She writes something on the murder board and Karpowski says, "Extraordinary, Beckett." Extraordinary this, extraordinary that. And then she comes out of the ladies room and hears a patrolman ask his partner as they're walking down the hall, obviously not aware that she's right behind them, "How extraordinary do you think she is?"

That does it. She doesn't like the leering tone of the rookie's voice. "Donovan," she hisses. "And Jefferson. In interrogation one. Now."

The trio enters the room and she pulls down the blinds. "Sit," she commands. The two officers look sick.

"Extraordinary? You want to tell me what you meant by that?"

"Uh," Jefferson says.

"You, Donovan. I'm asking you."

"I was just, you know. It's in the dedication."

"The dedication?"

"Of the book. You know. Where Castle called you extraordinary. Said 'To the extraordinary K.B.' "

She's glad that she's got five years or so on this guy, and a lot of experience in hiding her emotions and in thinking fast. She hasn't seen the dedication because it's not in the galley that Castle gave her. He called her extraordinary? That's amazing. Overwhelming. Her heart is melting. She hopes the boys in blue can't see her swallowing hard. And now she thinks hard and makes the mental leap.

"And so you want to know if I'm extraordinary in the sack, is that it?"

"No, no!"

"I know a lie when I hear and see it, Donovan. You're a boatload of tells right now. So pay close attention to what I'm saying. Do not ever, ever, speak like that about me or any other woman in this precinct again, got it? It's unprofessional and worse. I should send you to the boys' room and make you wash out your mouth with soap."

"Sorry, Detective."

"Duly noted. You understand that _Heat Wave_ is a work of fiction, right? And just for the record? There is nothing, and I mean nothing with a capital N, going on between Castle and me. Got it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Dismissed."

She goes back to the bullpen and tells Espo and Ryan that she's taking half an hour of personal time. It's personal, all right. She's personally going to Barnes & Noble where she will personally pick up _Heat Wave_ and personally read the dedication. Since there's an enormous poster of the book jacket and an entire table of copies right inside the front door, she's in and out of the store in seconds. Wow. The whole dedication. "To the extraordinary KB and all my friends at the 12th." Just wow. But then people like Donovan read page 105 and suddenly put a very different spin on the dedication. Ruin it. Shit.

Using the nineteen minutes she has left, she sits on a Union Square bench in the warm autumn sun and thinks. A plan is bubbling up. A simple plan. She's going to talk to Castle. She's not letting him off the hook for this, no way. She uses her phone to check his website; aha, there's his tour schedule. Saturday, Washington DC. He finishes his appearance at six, and she's banking on his going straight back to his hotel. But which hotel? She books a roundtrip ticket on Amtrak and heads back to work, equanimity restored. At least for now.

On the train to Washington she compiles a list of places that Castle could be staying in, and narrows the list to six. She finds it on the second call; she'd thought he might choose it because it's the sister hotel of one he always uses in Chicago. The one that brings you a goldfish in a bowl in case you're lonely. He's told her about that a few times.

"Hotel Monaco, how may I help you?"

"May I speak to Richard Castle, please? He's a guest."

"Richard Castle?"

"That's right."

"One moment, I'll connect you."

Beckett ends the call and makes a note of the address. Good. She has some time to kill, and uses it to visit the National Gallery of Art, since she hasn't been there in years. At 6:10 she takes a seat in the lobby of his hotel, her eye on the door. Seven minutes later, he strolls in, but doesn't see her. She follows him to the bank of elevators. Oh, damn, why does he have to be wearing that aftershave? The one that makes her knees wobble. And that blue shirt. As soon as he pushes the UP button she says, from directly behind him, "Hi, Castle."

"Beckett?" He very nearly gives himself whiplash. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, if you let me into your suite—I assume you have a suite?"

He nods but doesn't manage to speak.

She looks coolly at him. "If you invite me in I'll explain it to you."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

They're silent in the elevator, silent as they walk down the carpeted hallway, silent as he uses his key card to unlock the door which he holds open for her. "Please, come in."

"Thanks," she says, glad that he can't see her face as it registers the handsomeness of the living room part of his suite, the gorgeous colors. It must be nice to travel like this. Still, she doesn't envy him having to travel to a different city every day for two weeks. He deserves the luxury. Even if she wants to kill him.

"Can I get you something, Beckett? A glass of wine, maybe? The bookstore sent over a really good bottle."

"Sure. Thanks." She's about to settle into a chair with a downy pillow when she decides to stay standing. What she wants to say to Castle merits standing up.

"Here you go," he says, holding two glasses as he walks towards her. "Don't you want to sit down? Make yourself comfortable?"

"I am comfortable."

"Oh."

"Don't stand on my account, Castle."

"No, no this is fine. I've had my butt on a chair for four hours. I don't know which is sorer, that or my hand." He flexes his fingers dramatically. "I must have signed a million books."

"Really. And how many chests?"

"None." The smile has fallen from his face. "None. I don't do that any more, Beckett."

She lets one eyebrow move up just a fraction. "Right." The wine is delicious. One sip and she's feeling a little mellow, and that can't happen. Not now. She sets her glass on the coffee table. "Speaking of which."

"What which?"

"Chests. Specifically, breasts." She sees borderline panic in his eyes, the eyes that happen to match exactly the pillow that's on the sofa just a few inches to his right. He may think he's hiding his nerves from her; he's not.

Uh-oh. "Oh?"

Her mood detector is buzzing and blinking in neon letters: FAKE NONCHALANCE. Yes, she's definitely unsettled him, which is exactly what she wants. "Breasts, on page one-oh-five of your new book. Nikki's breasts, or mine, as everyone will think of them. And by the way, if you're going to write about my bra, at least get it right."

"I was wrong about your, I mean Nikki's, bra?" He hadn't intended to say that, it slipped out. But he's never been wrong about a bra in his life. At least, not in his adult life. Why is she so pissed off about a bra?

She's wildly indignant now, but very much in control. "I never, ever wear bras that fasten in the front."

"Well, then you should be relieved that no one will think you're the model for that scene."

"How many people do you think know what kind of bra I wear, Castle?"

Her voice is steel, and she's standing so close to him that he can see the lacy outline of the bra she has on, pressing against her blouse. He sees it but does not comment on it. He wants to keep his testicles intact. But he's pissed off, too. She's making way too much of this. "I don't know, Beckett. How many people have taken it off?"

Her eyes are boring into him like drill bits. He thinks he's beginning to feel them digging sharply into his skin.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Castle? Do you know much crap I'm taking over this?"

He pales, and then he flushes. He starts to say something but stops when she puts her palm up.

"Did you consider that when you wrote that page, Castle? How could you write a sex scene without asking me first? It's humiliating. Every cop I know is going to read it. My father is going to read it. My father. How about if one of your buddies were writing a book like this and Alexis was the muse. Huh? Did you ever think what a sex scene in a book with central characters based on you and me—and everyone knows it, since you've been bragging about it from day one—would mean for me? A woman working in a man's profession? I have to fight for my self-respect every freaking day, still, and I shouldn't have to."

"I. I'm."

"I'm not finished. I get it, you're a guy. Guys don't think about that. But you know what? They should. You should. It's two thousand nine, for Christ's sake. It's not 'just teasing,' you know. All week I've endured snickering and leering. Skeevy little notes left on my desk. An empty bottle of tequila and two limes in my locker. Someone put a pretty gift bag on my chair, and you know what was inside? A bra. A bra, Castle. At work. And that's not the worst."

"It isn't?"

"No. The worst is hearing two snot-nosed rookies speculating on how good I am in bed."

"Oh, God."

"Yeah, well, I tore them new ones. They won't be talking like that again. At least not in this lifetime."

"What can I do?"

"What can you do? Nothing. The damage is done."

"The rookies. Who were they?

"Why do you care, Castle?"

"I care."

He looks serious. Serious and angry and sad, a combination she's never seen in him before. She decides to tell him, but leaves out the spurious connection that the two cops made to the book dedication. "Donovan and Jefferson."

"I'm going to talk to them."

"Don't. I already did."

"That's not the point."

She sighs wearily. "Then what is, Castle?"

"The point is that until very recently I used to be just like them. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was. And obviously I haven't completely reformed or I'd have realized that I should talk to you about that scene before I put it in the book. I don't know how to apologize to you enough. I don't. I am so, so sorry."

She folds her arms across her chest like armor. He's contrite, she can tell, but still. "The thing is, it's all, it's all, the whole thing—it's so sexgestive."

"Sexgestive?"

"Suggestive, Castle. _Sugg_. Not sex. God."

"That's not what you said." He's trying so hard not to smile.

She can tell how hard he's trying not to smile, and it mellows her even more than that taste of wine she'd had. So she smiles for both of them. "I really said sexgestive?"

"You did."

"It's your fault. You're the one who wrote the sex scene."

"You're the one who made me think of it."

Whoops. There it is. Out in the open, suspended between them like a fragile bamboo bridge over a mile-deep chasm.

"Uh." She grabs her glass and hopes that it and her hair will obscure enough of her face so that he doesn't see her blush.

What the hell. He's made such a mess of it he'll just plow ahead. "Are you surprised? Because. Because—listen, would it be all right if we sat down? Please?"

"Okay." Still clutching her glass, she moves slowly to the sofa and drops down at the far end.

"Beckett. Kate. I." He can feel his hands shaking, and puts them on either side of his thighs. He turns partly to the left so that he can see her, and hopes that eventually she'll look at him. "I've, I've got it pretty bad, you know." She looks as if she's about to bite off the rim of the glass, and it worries him. "A bad case of Beckett. At the risk of scaring you off, having you toss me out—not out of here, but out of your life—I have to tell you that I'm crazy about you. Totally crazy about you. Just so you know. I'm relieved to have said it. You don't have to say anything, except I hope that you know that I really am beyond sorry about the trouble I caused you with the book. If you want me to get the hell out of the precinct, I will."

She's still biting the glass, but at least she's looking at him. Finally she says, "That's not what I want."

"It isn't?"

"No."

"What do you want, then? Anything. I'll do anything."

"Feed me. I haven't had anything to eat today except a piece of butterscotch that I found in a kitchen drawer at eight this morning before I left."

He jumps up. "I can feed you! Let's go get dinner! There are some fantastic restaurants around here."

"Castle."

"Yeah?" He's already putting on the jacket that he'd taken off the minute they'd arrived.

"It's Saturday night."

"I know that."

"Every place will be packed."

All the air goes out of him. "Oh. No, wait, I know a lot of maître 'ds here. Won't be a problem."

"I'm not dressed up."

"You look fine to me."

"Not to me. They have room service in this swanky joint?"

"Yes. Yes, they do. Let me get the menu."

While he's frantically looking for it on the desk, she says, "Where's your fish?"

"My fish?"

"Wacker."

"Wacker's my Chicago fish."

"Right, 'cause the hotel's on Wacker Drive, I know. You have a fish here?"

"Of course. Right next to my bed."

"What do you call it, F? Since you're on F Street?"

He turns to her, the menu in his hand. "F is a terrible name, especially for a fish. I call him Sidney. For Sidney Reilly, Ace of Spies. The International Spy Museum is on the next block, same street."

"You don't call him double oh seven?"

"Nah, too obvious. Besides, he's an American fish."

She nods, takes a menu and studies it.

"See anything that strikes your fancy, Beckett?" Like Chateaubriand for two, how romantic would that be? But she hasn't said anything. At least she hasn't run.

"Kinda lost my taste for fish, for some reason," she says, dangling one of her ballet flats from her toes. "I like the idea of skirt steak, though. And creamed spinach. And mashed potatoes."

"Good. Me, too." He calls room service and is relieved that they can serve them in a quarter of an hour. When he comes back, he sits at the opposite end of the sofa.

"Castle? You can move closer. I'm not going to hit you."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He scoots towards the middle and so does she, leaving a small space between them. She clears her throat. "I really liked the rest of the book."

"You did?" Birds are singing and fluttering around him as if he were Cinderella. He knows he should be Prince Charming, but what the hell, he hears birds singing.

"Kind of loved it." She looks at him over her almost-empty glass. "Except."

The birds stop. "Except?"

"I hate tequila. If we're in a drinking game, it's not gonna be with that. Ugh. A really, really good bourbon, maybe."

"Or a single malt?"

"Only if you're buying."

"I'm buying."

This is more like it, she thinks.

This is more like it, he thinks.

"I can drink you under the table, you know."

"So I've heard, Beckett. Montgomery says you have two hollow legs."

"Somethin' like that."

"Very long legs."

"Yup."

"I wouldn't stand a chance with you."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she says, suddenly serious. "I think you've got a pretty good chance."

A knock at the door interrupts them. "Room service."

He mutters something unintelligible and lets the waiter in. The uniformed man sets up their meal in front of the window and says thank you at least four times when Castle presses a $50 bill in his hand and ushers him out as quickly as possible.

"Did they bring food for Sidney?" Beckett asks later as she surveys the tabletop. "A fish has to eat, too. Think he'd like some of this spinach?"

"Don't think he likes spinach. He ate earlier. Only eats during the day time."

"Huh." She chews a bit of steak. "When you think about it, he eats in bed. I mean he sleeps in the fish bowl, right? And he eats there. So he eats in bed."

"Easy to tell that you're the child of lawyers, Beckett."

"You ever eat in bed, Castle?"

"Yeah. What about you?"

She's holding a forkful of mashed potato and twirls it lightly. "Not when I'm alone."

He coughs.

She gasps. She's just noticed the time on her watch. "Shit, I missed my train."

"Your train?"

"Back to New York. It's the last one unless I want to take that Night Owl thing that gets in to Penn Station at three a.m. No thank you. Dammit."

"You can stay here tonight."

Her eyes are huge. "Here?"

"Yes, here." He points to the open doorway to the bedroom. See? There are two queen-size beds. One for you, one for me. I don't snore. But if you don't want to be in the same room with me, I can sleep out here on the sofa."

"I don't mind being in the same room with you, Castle. I'm in the same room with you right now. Geez. But I don't want to sleep in my clothes since I have to wear them tomorrow. Maybe I'll take the Night Owl. How bad can it be?"

"I'm not answering that question. I'm sure it's vile. Disgusting. Probably filthy. Probably full of louts and lotharios."

"Lotharios? What is this, nineteen oh nine? I think I can take care of myself, Castle."

"You can borrow one of my tee shirts. It'll cover you to your knees. I can ask the desk for another toothbrush and everything."

He's so earnest and loving that it's all she can do not to lean across the little table and kiss him so hard that they land in the International Spy Museum. "Okay, you convinced me."

They're both exhausted. As soon as they've finished dinner, Castle gives her one of his tee shirts as well as the toothbrush that a bellman had brought up. He waits in the living room while she goes in the bathroom to change. She's standing next to her bed and calls to him. "I'm all through. The bathroom's yours." Even in the dimly lit room and even from where he's sitting he can tell that she has no bra on. No back-closing bra. He really did try not to notice, but she's right there.

When he comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, wearing a tee shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms, she's in her bed with the covers pulled up to her chin.

"You can read if you want," she says. "The light won't bother me."

"Thanks, but I think I'm as exhausted as you, Beckett." He turns off the lamp between their beds.

"Night, Castle."

"Night, Beckett."

"Night, Sidney."

She stays awake for a long time. She knows when he drifts off because his breathing changes. He'd told her the truth, though: he doesn't snore. He's lying on his side, facing her, and she can just see his eyes move under the lids, wonders what he's dreaming about. Her? Because she's been dreaming about him lately. A lot. He's got a bad case of Beckett. She's got a bad case of Castle, but she hasn't told him. Told him he had a chance though, hadn't she? Maybe this is the time for her to take a chance. She knows it's right, and she's just been refusing to admit it. There's her chance, with his hair all ruffled and a hand under his cheek. She pushes off her covers and closes the distance between them.

He wakes up when she gets in bed with him.

"Kate? God, your feet are cold."

"The rest of me isn't, I promise."

 **A/N** Thank you all for reading and reviewing, which keeps me in the Castle FF world. Special thanks to those to whom I cannot reply, including the one who sent me the word "sexgestive." I'll be back soon with another story.


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